Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Four Hundred and Six

She had long ago stopped feeling her feet or fingers. A frozen-footed stumble took her into a ravine where the snow covered her in its cold embrace.

It was peaceful where she lay, and she found herself resentful of the hands that dug her out and roughly chafed her flesh.

“Wake up.” The voice was urgent. “Wake up little one. It is not yet your hour.”

She slotted open her eyes to see a bearded man looking down at her. He picked her up in his arms and the heat of his body slowly crept into her frozen soul.

©jane jago

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